Sherlock's Therapy
by eszabo1
Summary: "NEVER say that you are just another experiment," Sherlock shouted, spinning around, his face bright red. "You want to know the truth? Here it is- the one truth I've been avoiding, the one fact that Sherlock Holmes doesn't want to analyze..." Johnlock, slash, one-shot


AN- this is a one-shot with johnlock. Beware- this is slash. If you aren't a fan, then leave.

otherwise, stay and (hopefully) enjoy!

John was sipping his tea one Wednesday when it happened. It was mint tea, the soothing kind, because he was recovering from a particularly terrifying encounter with a serial killer the night before. However, the gunshots always gave him a thrill; the adrenaline pumping and the running, oh the running, was brilliant. And Sherlock, too.  
He got up to get his laptop. He was thinking about going down to the dry cleaners to get the mud stains out of his nice trousers. The weather was mild, but the sky was covered with gray clouds and the air a bit thick, so it might rain.  
But on the way he stopped. On the other side of the desk was Sherlock's laptop that he had left when he visited Mycroft. He thought of when Sherlock had made fun of him for what he found while sorting thought John's own laptop- (he had wondered then why he had done such a thorough search- what was the motive? After all, they were strictly friends.) Aha, John thought. Maybe I'll give him a taste of his own medicine.  
He sat down at the desk and pulled the laptop towards him, tea on the coffee table forgotten. It was warm from charging, and when he opened it to turn it on, it hummed happily. Just a precaution, John thought. To see if he's doing anything dangerous to himself. John did not want to admit that he coveted any insight into Sherlock's intriguing mind, that curiosity had got the better of him.  
The lock page had a black wallpaper- of course, minimalistic- and a passcode. John put his elbows on the table. What would Sherlock's password be? His first guess would be a random mix of letters and numbers. But he couldn't guess that, so John would have to try other things.  
He started off with 221b. The password screen shook from side to side as if shaking its head. But that was too obvious. John remembered when they had gone to Baskerville. Sherlock said that people make up passwords from their surroundings. What was around the flat, words?  
Sherlock's website, the science of deduction. He tried it with no spaces. Then mrs Hudson. Then Sherlock Holmes. All were negative. Then he looked around. His jumper was lying on the back of a chair, johns tea, his shoes at the door.  
JohnWatson.  
He inhaled, shocked as if from lightning when he was in. Sherlock's home page lay right before him, a gray wallpaper with folders neatly arranged on the right side. Josh looked, nervous, to the door, but it did not barge open. His name was Sherlock's password. That would make sense, right? It was not easy to forget. It was logical.  
So John proceeded. He clicked the file application. A window appeared against the gray with lists and lists of files. Cases, useful information, bank records... Then one stood out. Personal. Just like Sherlock not to hide anything. He was too trusting in John, too trusting in the stupidity and no interest of normal humans.  
There was only one file- journal entries. He opened it, and a word processing application was opened.  
There was only one large document; He saw that it was about ten pages long. He started to read.

June 5, 1989  
I have started this journal as an attempt to normalize my thoughts. I have done lots of research on stabilizing emotions; besides for therapy, the most common solution has been journalizing. So here it is.  
I suppose I will begin with an account of what has made me resort to this display of emotions- even if it is only to myself. It began when my parents both died in a tragic car accident when I was eight years old.  
I still showed emotions then. I displayed my feelings like a banner, to everyone everywhere, all the time. It was strange- I remember feeling more peaceful, even when classmates taunted me for my genius. So when mom and dad died, I felt extremely lonely. It was feeling like I was in a deep, dark pit. I missed school for several weeks, and during that time Mycroft and I came into the custody of a distant uncle. He was always away, so it was just me and Mycroft. Thankfully, we did not have to switch schools.  
Oh, Mycroft. That was the last time we were like average brothers. Every night I would come into his room, sobbing, and he would somehow keep me from my nightmares.  
After that, though, I stopped showing emotions. When people commented on my parent's deaths, saying their false condolences, I would disagree. "I'm sorry," they would say. "I'm not," I would reply.  
That tore me apart inside. Mycroft was shocked at my behavior, but I did not know how to deal with the sadness. So I alienated myself from anybody else. I spent time that I used to use playing baseball or doing schoolwork reading up on deductions and honing my observational skills.  
The rest I would like to keep to myself, for I will never, ever write down the events of middle and high school. Even though no one will ever read this, it is better safe than sorry.  
I will return to this after I finish my project on how to determine types of paint. (The only projects I do are only the ones that benefit myself. Yet I still lead a successful uni career.)

John paused after the first entry. He had no idea that his parents had died, or the extent of which his loneliness caused him to suffer. John had assumed that Sherlock was always the same; living only for using his mind, and not engaging in any pointless human activities, not to mention emotions.  
This journal was like a look into his mind, however awful. John scrolled down to the next page. It was shockingly empty. The next eight pages were also empty. But there was a short entry at the very bottom.

August 11, 1989  
I have decided that this journal is quite pointless. I will only return to it if something of great importance happens, as a last resort. I can handle my own emotions without a keyboard.

John thought for a moment. Why was there so much space between entries? There was three months between the dates, too.  
But wait a moment. John remembered that very old word processing software did not delete the lines with the text. Perhaps- it was likely- Sherlock had written nine more pages of his life and deleted them, leaving blank space. And the file had kept the blank lines when it was converted to the new word processing application he had open.  
He was just drumming his fingers on the desk, a habit he had recently picked up from Sherlock himself, when the door was pushed open, swinging haphazardly and hitting the wall behind it with a thud. Sherlock stood in the door, hair dripping, a pained look on his face. His ice eyes flicked between John and the computer.  
"Oh, god," Sherlock said softly. "You found it."  
John watched as he made his way to the couch and sat down. He couldn't match this Sherlock, the one he knew, with the emotion-filled one that was in the journal entry. Though he scolded himself for thinking that Sherlock had always been like this; wasn't it always when a persons felt too much that they decided to show nothing? But he still felt uneasiness in his stomach. Guilt?  
Sherlock was rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. "John," he said, softer than John would've imagined possible. "I was thinking-" His hands were now in his lap, pale violinist's hands. "No." John saw the muscles in his jaw clench. "I was thinking that we could go on with this- relationship," he said cautiously, "without that coming up. I thought you might be normal. At least to me." He was now standing, looking at the floor instead of at John with those powerful eyes. "I guessed from the minute I walked in. How could I be so stupid, of course you would guess the password!" His eyes were shut tight, and his hands pulling at his curly black hair. Then he came over and stood by John's desk. He watched in awe as emotions of all kinds flickered across his face. John's heart skipped a beat as he knelt down to eye level.  
"John, dearest John." He didn't dare look away. "Can you tell? My feelings for you?"  
John's heart leaped at that, and his mind tried to evaluate the specific meaning of "feelings". "No, I suppose not," John answered, feeling dazed. "You don't seem to possess any emotions whatsoever." Sherlock's face fell, but just for a millisecond. He went to the mantle, his hand on the marble as if he needed to support himself.  
"Well, that's how it should be. Everything's fine." Anger rose in John's throat, so that he could barely get the next words out.  
"No, Sherlock everything's not fine. You push down your feelings because they might hurt you again, like they did all those years ago. But what about me?" John stood as Sherlock stayed still. "What if- what if I have feelings for you?" His voice broke.  
"That's exactly the thing I'm trying to avoid," Sherlock said quietly.  
"No. You've failed, then. Does that make me another one of your experiments?" John spat.  
"NEVER say that you are just another experiment," Sherlock shouted, spinning around, his face bright red. "You want to know the truth? Here it is- the one truth I've been avoiding, the one fact that Sherlock Holmes doesn't want to analyze. Ever since I met you, I have been feeling very attracted to you. Your company brings me pleasure that is unequalled. I have dreams about you every night. Even when I am deducing you manage to find your way into my head." He was making fists so that his knuckles turned white. "I keep trying to push you off, to make you feel like you are just my assistant. But it hurts me every time I do." He looked to the ground, and John gathered up his own courage.  
"Yeah? You think you've been going through a lot? Well I assure you that my attraction is a thousand times more potent. I have no experience in pushing down my emotions, so now I'm stuck. Do you know how hard it is not to say anything? To do anything out of the ordinary?" Sherlock froze, the pained look on his face breaking John's heart. John regretted his anger, regretted everything because now he knew that Sherlock loved him. The pure shock must have been making him angry.  
"Yes, I do, Doctor," Sherlock said, calling him by his title. "I know how hard it is. But would you like to stop?" Sherlock now had a mischievous smile on his face.  
"Stop- stop doing what?" John asked.  
"Pushing down our feelings." And then Sherlock came over to John, tracing one finger along his cheekbone. Shivers went up John's spine.  
"I would love that more than anything," John said. 

Review please if you have any thoughts!


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